May 10, 2004

My House And A Thunderstorm

Saturday night marked the first time I actually stayed in my house.

After a hectic and back-breaking day of carting loads of trash to the local recycling center and moving all my worldly goods from rental apartment A to mortgage home B, I found myself in the cavernous emptiness of my home, feeling as though I had abruptly severed one thread of my life and started unspooling another.

It's weird. Pretty much the only room that truly "finished" is the main bedroom. Every other room is basically 3/4 finished, with tape rounding the perimeter of all the trim, waiting patiently for a layer of paint to cover the shame of the colors that preceded my ownership.

The oak hardwood floors have been resurrected with surprising beauty. I had no idea that they'd come to life so brilliantly after half a century of laying dormant beneath shaggy carpet and years and years of accumulated dirt. Granted, they took a lot of work, with sanding and staining and sealing, but they really do look fantastic.

But, ugh, there's so much more work to complete. It's disheartening to think of all the crap I have to do before I start to feel as though I'm nearing a "finished" state.

Last night, a thunderstorm rolled through, one of those spring storms that seem as though Mother Nature saved up all her cleansing fury for one storm to wash away all the remnants of winter and clean up all the sand and salt laid down from November through March.

Melissa was in bed, trying to study for her final logic exam, while I wandered out to the immense porch, where I sat and listened to the angry tempest pushing through. The porch was cool, with a stiff breeze wafting through the windows I had cracked open ever so slightly to allow air to pass but not the driving rain.

And, for perhaps the very first time since I signed away $120,000 worth of debt, I felt entirely content. I didn't worry about money, or dread all the painting that is still required in pretty much every room. I just sat and listened to the passing storm.